My mind is in 2012 today. My body is in the recovery room, someone yelling over me about not breathing and my lips turning blue. I'm in the day stay bed, a clueless nurse insisting she won't tell me which surgery they did, because nobody remembers anything after anesthesia anyways. I'm laying in bed in a home that isn't mine, scared to look down at my stomach, listening to the song I used to sing to my baby.
I take every year's anniversary off, but grief doesn't stay on its designated day. How long am I going to keep knitting blankets for a baby I never got to hold?
